


The Unwritten Laws of Gods

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Backstory, Caesar's Legion, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, F/M, Gladiators, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Military Training, Multi, Multiple Partners, Naked Cuddling, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Psychic Abilities, Semi-Public Sex, Seriously it's the Legion, Sexual Experimentation, Sharing a Bed, Sign Language, That's it that's the whole warning, Too much Latin, Touch-Starved, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12855402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: The gods aren't kind to Argus. He's taken from his tribe, shipped halfway across the wasteland, and made to live under the Red Banners. His past is obscure, and his future is questionable. There's no way to tell what ten years in the Legion will do to him.





	The Unwritten Laws of Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Growing pains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111355) by [Dhole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhole/pseuds/Dhole). 



> Blah blah I don't condone all the garbage stuff the Legion does either canonically or non-canonically. That being said, I like Ancient Rome, I love worldbuilding, and I'm on the Caesar's Legion discord which is the greatest thing. Argus came from all of this and I love him with my whole heart. Maybe someone else will like him, too. And [here is some art](https://imgur.com/a/32zt5) that my wonderful roommate did of Argus when he's all grown up. <3 Bless.
> 
> So this fic covers about ten years before FNV and has a lot of non-canon lore and worldbuilding and stuff. It's like a great big Roman-ish sandbox for me and I'm very happy about that. I was super inspired by [dhole's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhole/pseuds/Dhole) Semper Fidelis series (expect some of their OCs as well as others' to pop up in here a few times), so I can't recommend that enough.
> 
> Aaaaand finally, thank you for reading this in general! I know OC stuff isn't the most popular, but I've had a lot of fun working on Argus and writing this, so I do appreciate it. :D
> 
> [Aengus = Argus' old timey name]

**I. Gladiator**  
  
_"Auferre, trucidare, rapere, falsis nominibus imperium; atque, ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant."_

_"They plunder, they slaughter, and they steal: this they falsely name Empire, and where they make a wasteland, they call it peace."_

_-_ Tacitus,  _Agricola,_ Chapter 30

* * *

 

  
In Aengus’ tribe, there’s no word for what he’s being made to do. There are combinations of words that he could use; _fight-watch, battle-play_ , and so on. As he watches the proceedings, he thinks of how he might describe it to his people, if they were still alive.  
  
_The men of the Red Banners play with these tribal men like a predator toying with its prey,_ he would say. _They play at fighting, but only one of them is properly equipped. The people watching—they are people who never truly see battle—they want the tribal man to die, and they want him to bleed until there is nothing left inside of him. They want to see him torn apart, and they will cheer while it happens._  
  
Certainly, he’s done play-fighting before, the way that children do. He’s wrestled on the riverbanks and in the pounded dirt circles that the adults use for training. He’s thrown a spear at targets made of hay with his cousins and friends. Not once has he ever seen one of his own people kill another for sport as if they were nothing but a radstag. The cracking of bone, the wet sound of open flesh, and the screams of the dying are almost drowned out by the euphoric cheers of the Red Banners, and he wants to be sick.  
  
In the tiny cage-like pen that he and the other tribals are shoved into as they await their deaths, he thinks vomiting would go much unappreciated by the others. He’s almost knee to knee with the man across from him, a dark-eyed man with a thunderous expression and a coiling, thorn-covered tattoo sprawling down his right arm. The man grunts but doesn’t speak, which is a welcome improvement over the terrified yelping and whimpering of some of the others. Their master, a Red Banner with a shining silver chest plate and hair cropped close to his head, bellows at them in a language few of them understand. He shouts, spittle flying from his mouth, jabbing at ribs and smacking at the back of their legs with a staff made of repurposed rebar. Aengus manages to avoid the worst of it all, but the back of his right knee still smarts from an outburst earlier in the morning.  
  
He’s still not certain about the overall intention of the battles. The atmosphere outside of the cage is festive, as he can catch the faint comingling scents that are warm and savory one moment, and sweet the next. Once in a while, he smells something almost floral, but it comes and goes as quickly as a ghost. Nothing even compares to the overpowering reek of blood, sweat, filth, and rot. In the late summer heat, even the men in the cage are attracting flies as if they were already dead. It’s all a very far cry from the joyous shouts and songs from the people up above.  
  
So the Red Banners must celebrate their gods with bloodshed, he guesses. Between the bars facing the wide open span of dirt and sand where the fights take place, he sees a young man hustling over to the scene of the last fight. There’s still a dark streak in the earth, and the man eagerly runs over the top of it with a frayed broom. The dark streak disappears under his care, and he gives a self-satisfied nod before jogging out of sight.  
  
They’re preparing for the next round.  
  
The master of the cage starts snarling and howling again, rapping his rebar staff against the bars of the cage to produce a skull-splitting rattle. Aengus just barely understands his speech, but gleans enough to know what comes next.  
  
_Red,_ the man shouts. More gibberish. He points at a tribal man who has an enormous red X painted across his bare chest. Each of them has one in a different color. Aengus’ is dark blue, similar to the tattoos that spiral up and down his arms. The man with the red X shrinks away from the gesture, his eyes wide in terror. He shakes his head quickly. _No, not me,_ Aengus thinks he says.  
  
Now the master is shouting louder, his face turning as red as the cloak thrown over his shoulder. _You will!_ he howls, now slamming the rebar on the ground. _Fight!_  
  
The red-marked tribesman whimpers and stands up, his legs trembling beneath him as though they’re unfamiliar with his weight. He crosses his arms over his chest in a gesture like a self-embrace, screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. Another man, marked in yellow, scoffs and says a word that Aengus knows means something like ‘coward’, and a few others laugh darkly. They all know what’s to come, that once they’re out of the cage, their fates are sealed. Aengus is sure that like him, many of them have been taught that death is simply another state of life. How it is approached is how someone is judged as honorable or not. This man shows cowardice in the face of death, and the other men jeer at him for it.  
  
Aengus watches the man with pity. Wherever he came from, whoever he was, it’s unclear if anyone is left that will remember him. He may be the last of his tribe with no one to speak his name after he meets his death.  
  
The moment the red-marked man is within the master’s grip, he is yanked by the arm, all but shoved against the cage’s door.  
  
Aengus hears a Red Banner word that he thinks means ‘weapon’, and this is confirmed when the master pushes a bent, rusted machete into the tribesman’s right hand and a pathetically small shield into his left. The master laughs in a high, crackling sound. He says something that is probably demeaning before shoving the man out onto the sand.  
  
The dark-eyed man across from Aengus utters something that sounds like a prayer, making a strange gesture of tapping his forehead with his thumb before crossing his hand in a slicing motion over his heart. Then, he closes his eyes and lowers his head in a slow nod. Aengus isn’t familiar with it, but he can guess its meaning; a gesture meant to respect the dead, or those about to die.  
  
There is a similar gesture Aengus can perform, although he hasn’t done it since the remains of his tribe were a smoking black carcass in the distance. Now, knowing that every man he sits with in this fly-invested, stinking cage is going to die, including himself, he supposes it’s as good a time as any. He holds up three fingers of his right hand, his spear hand, and presses them to his lips. Then, he points these fingers toward the man now standing in the arena. _The Kiss of the Morrigan_ , it was called. A gesture of blessing from the goddess of war and death, not meant to protect someone from those forms of strife, but to make it quick and painless, and to make it honorable.  
  
Judging by the impatient squawking of hungry crows nearby, eagerly awaiting their next carrion meal, this isn’t a farfetched thing to wish for.  
  
At least Aengus will see his family again before moonrise. It’s been some years since he last saw them, their throats cut from ear to ear, their bodies propped against each other. Their misted, unfocused eyes still felt as if they were on him, and continued to follow him as he was passed from raider gang to slaver band, crossing more land than he had ever seen in his life. All that time, he felt judged by them.  
  
_Why us?_ In his dreams, they asked this question over and over, the words falling from their slackened jaws and open throats as their cold, stiff hands reached for him with twitching, clawing fingers. _Why were you the only one allowed to walk away?_  
  
In his dreams, he can never explain himself. Within a few hours, he will have all the time in the world to tell them what had happened.  
  
Somewhere close, a horn bellows and the crowd follows it with a roar of approval. Through the bars, Aengus can see the red-marked man backing up to the edge of the arena as the gates directly across from the cage swing open. It’s difficult to see with so much in the way, but Aengus can make out a massive figure dressed in shining, brassy armor, his head crested with a plume of crimson. Whoever he is, the crowd must adore him, judging by their deafening cheers. A Red Banner man with a resounding voice announces him with a name Aengus has never heard before, and forgets almost instantly. It’s lost in all the other strange words.  
  
At an invisible prompting, the Red Banner warrior lifts his right arm in the air and gives a shout that sounds joyous. Then the horn groans again, and the fight begins.  
  
Aengus doesn’t want to watch the battle. He knows how it will end, just as he knows that the remains of the red-marked man will be picked clean to the bones within a few days. Whether out of respect for the man, or out of respect for the Morrigan that Aengus called upon for a macabre blessing, he watches.  
  
The Red Banner warrior toys with the other man. He marches around the arena as if he’s in a grand parade, lifting his knees up high with his machete—cleaned and sharpened, no doubt—lifted high in the air so that it catches the sun with a silver glint. Some in the crowd laugh at this display. The red-marked man continues to back away like a wounded animal. Soon, the Red Banner warrior is taunting him in a low, thunderous voice.  
  
_Run away?_ is all Aengus can catch. _Run away? Run away?_ There are other words he says, but these seem to be the only ones that matter.  
  
The Red Banner warrior prolongs it far too long, trying to milk every ounce of terror from his opponent. At some point, it just becomes cruel, and the crowd begins baying for blood like hounds. Their feet stomp on the boards, their rhythmic chant like a sacrificial hymn. The Red Banner warrior takes this as a prompt in itself, lifting his machete once more with a howling battle cry. Aengus only sees half the killing blow, just enough to watch the machete fall in a swooping arc, and then the spray of blood that follows. It coats the face of the warrior, and he howls in delighted laughter as the red-marked man gurgles in his death throes.  
  
It’s a wound to the neck, no doubt, but it takes the red-marked man only seconds to die. He falls to his knees, blood pouring arterially, and then falls forward face-down on the sand. The crowd approves immensely, and the whole arena shakes with their delight. Aengus covers his mouth with his hand and lowers his eyes, now under the real threat of being sick indeed.  
  
He wants this to be over. It’s going to be slow and systematic, placing one man up against another until none are left in the cage. Only then will the Red Banners be satisfied, and only for so long. More tribesmen will be captured and sent to this festive slaughter.  
  
“Blue!” the master suddenly shouts, and Aengus jerks upright at the exclamation.  
  
When he looks up, the master’s cold eyes are on him. The man’s staff is pointing at him as if in accusation. When he shouts his command, Aengus doesn’t need to translate it to know the intention. He simply nods to himself and stands while the young man sweeps the blood away outside. Aengus doesn’t protest or beg, because there is nothing to protest or beg _for._ His people are gone, his family dead, and it’s only been an act of fate or the gods or something far crueler that he’s lasted as long as he has. There is little left to gain except an honorable death.  
  
_Morrigan take me,_ he thinks to himself, squaring his shoulders and drawing in a deep breath through his nose. _And take me swiftly._  
  
Then, the dark-eyed man across from him looks directly into his eyes. His gaze is burningly intense, and as slowly and methodically as possible, he repeats the gesture he gave to the red-marked man before. Thumb to forehead, hand slicing over his heart, eyes closed, and a slow nod. When he opens his eyes again, he gives Aengus the closest thing to a smile that he can manage. Aengus repeats the Kiss of the Morrigan and points it back to the man. Their intentions are very clear.  
  
_Fight well. Die well._  
  
The master is suddenly at his back, jabbing him at the base of his spine with the rebar. Aengus notices that the master doesn’t grab him the way he grabbed the cowering red-marked man. He may owe some of it to the fact that he’s nearly a full head taller than the man, or that he’s simply not begging and pleading for his life. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter as there is only one way for Aengus to go, and it’s out the cage door, into the arena that burns like molten gold under the harsh summer sun.  
  
Aengus immediately shields his eyes with his arm, squinting out at his surroundings. Compared to all of the other places in the Red Banners’ land, the arena is the strangest of all. It’s an immense structure, carefully constructed from lumber, corrugated steel, repurposed stone, and cinder block all built over what must have been an old world arena. What surfaces can be carved and painted have been, mostly to display murals of men fighting other men, animals, monsters, and machines. A mural at the far eastern stone wall displays a young man in a brilliant red cloak standing haloed against the sun over a pile of bodies. At his back are two other men, less detailed but still wreathed in light.  
  
What strikes him more than anything is the vast amount of people; far more than he’s ever seen in one place in his life. Even the markets where the slave auctions took place can’t begin to compare to the sea of people surrounding him. It’s a dizzying display, and he almost misses the jutting platform to the north overseeing the whole scene. The platform is decorated in those same red banners, gilded with a creature that Aengus recognizes as an old world bull. Armored men flank both sides of the platform, their helmets crested in red, as is everything else in the territory, as even the spears in their hands are collared with carmine feathers. In the center sits an older man, reclining on a massive bronze-lined seat, its back high and crowned with crossed spears. To his right is another man, scarred and cruel in appearance, his hawk eyes on Aengus the moment he steps into the sunlight.  
  
The man in the center must be the leader of the Red Banners, Aengus realizes.  
  
“ _Tribal!_ ” someone barks at him, and Aengus turns just in time to have a man shove a small shield into his hands. The man is a short, angry thing, and Aengus have expects him to bark and snarl rather than speak. He yells something else, and then gestures to a back wall where a spear is mounted on two metal pegs. Aengus thinks he means for him to take it, but the horn bellows before he can even take a step in that direction.  
  
Behind him, the gates open.  
  
Aengus turns around slowly, eyes wide. His opponent lumbers into the arena, a hulking man with muscles so large that they strain under his bronze armor. He has a stance like a bighorner preparing to charge, his helmeted head ducked low, his shoulders up. In his right hand is a long, sturdy spear, tipped with a barbed steel point attached to a thick copper coil at its base. He carries no shield, but Aengus knows that there is no intention of him carrying one, as that would suggest he can be hit.  
  
Belatedly, Aengus wonders how this match-up must look to the crowd. Aengus himself is tall for his age, certainly. He hasn’t yet seen his eighteenth winter and he’s already taller than most Red Banner men, although his build seems to be all bones and little else. At the moment, he must appear to be the opposite of the Red Banners, what with his shock of white-blonde hair that will show blood most vibrantly, and the spirals of black, blue, and green tattoos that cover him from his head to his feet. His chest is marked in the blue X, and his only clothing is a pair of threadbare gray shorts. He is a strange thing to them, certainly, but they don’t expect him to survive.  
  
His opponent is larger in every respect; taller, more muscular, more solid. Aengus fancies that he might be the epitome of the Red Banners, meant to inspire them in their conquest of the tribes. This massive man, clothed in bronze and crimson, so strong that he requires no shield, is as good as a symbol to them. The cruel-looking man on the platform even seems pleased at his appearance.  
  
At least Aengus’ death will be a quick one, provided his opponent is the least bit merciful.  
  
Another man on the platform raises his arms, covered from wrist to elbow in ribbons and bracelets, and announces something in a voice that goes over the arena like the sound of gunfire. Aengus can’t understand most of what he says, but the man gestures to the opponent first, possibly in an introduction. The crowd bursts into appropriate cheering and clapping. They adore this man, obviously. They want him to win. They want Aengus to die.  
  
Then the announcer points at Aengus, saying something in a jeering tone with a wide grin on his face like a splitting crack in a piece of pottery. He knows a few of the words the man says, and none of them are complimentary. Some of the crowd laughs, some actually clap for him, and the rest sneer down at him and lift their fists in a thumbs-down gesture. He doesn’t need any cultural lessons to know what that means.  
  
The howl of the horn pierces the air almost unexpectedly, except that Aengus seems to be the only one who didn’t expect it. His opponent starts running towards him instantly, reminding Aengus of a brahmin stampede he had seen once. He charges at Aengus full-tilt, but rather than finishing the job quickly with the spear, he thrusts his shoulder directly into Aengus’ sternum, not only throwing him to the ground but knocking the wind out of him as well. Aengus’ head thumps against the packed dirt and sand, and even though the surface isn’t as hard as it could be, black dots fill his vision in wild, spiraling patterns. His shield goes rolling away, leaving him even more vulnerable than before.  
  
It’s only been a few seconds, and Aengus is already very sure that he’ll have to be scraped off the arena floor within the next minute or two. The crowd is ecstatic, and his opponent lifts the spear with a wide smile on his face. Victory is guaranteed.  
  
Dizzy and winded, Aengus manages to turn his head toward the northern platform, where the Red Banner leader and the hawk-eyed man sit together. The leader actually manages to look bored despite the game, and if anything, he looks somehow disappointed. He wanted more of a fight. That much is clear.  
  
He’ll have to wait for the next round, as Aengus attempts to lift himself off the sand, only to fall back with the force of vertigo that hits him like a second rush. He blinks the black spots out of his vision again, and feels the nauseous roll of his stomach. _So much for an honorable death,_ he thinks.  
  
His opponent circles back around like a great bronze vulture. His spear is now pointed down, and he presses a switch hidden on the spear’s haft. Something gives a whining metallic rattle before the steel point begins to glow molten orange as the copper coil superheats it. Not only is he going to kill Aengus, but he’s going to burn him while he does it. He’s going to _brand_ him.  
  
Aengus manages to roll away from the first strike. The spear pierces the sand where his head would have been and his opponent barks out a laugh of surprise. _This one has some fight in him!_ Aengus imagines he says. Even though every part of his body, especially his head, is in raw protest, Aengus scrambles for the back wall where the spear is. He’s going to black out, or vomit, or both, but he moves as quickly as he can, narrowly missing a spear point in his ankle. He actually feels the heat of the spear on the back of his leg when his opponent draws it back for another strike.  
  
Aengus calls upon every god and goddess applicable as he makes the last desperate sprint for the spear. He calls the Morrigan, Neit, Andraste, and even his own damn namesake for health. His opponent laughs and gives chase, even though Aengus knows this is just a mimic of what he could do. He’s prolonging the battle for entertainment.  
  
His run is unbalanced, and he slams into the wall once he reaches it, but his hand closes around the haft of the spear regardless. His vision is already darkening at the edges, and he may be concussed, but he feels the quick thrill of a small personal victory. The spear is obviously a cast-off, poorly made and ready to fall apart at the first throw, what with its splintered haft and rusted point. If he’s going to use it, he’s going to have to use it _well._  
  
Aengus turns around to face his opponent, but that one action is somehow too much. His vision swims, his head feels too light, and his stomach feels as if it turns in on itself in pain. He staggers, having to use the already suffering spear for support, and it moans mournfully under his weight.  
  
_At least I’ll die on my feet,_ he manages to think.  
  
Then, something happens.  
  
It’s not unfamiliar, at least not to Aengus. He feels something pushing at his head, as gentle as a current in the water, yet as insistent as a wildfire. _Waves,_ he called them once when he tried to explain them to his mother. _They feel like waves._ They are flickers of light in the corner of his eye, whispers in his ears, dreams when he’s awake. In childhood, they usually meant that he would see something before it happened, although typically, they were never good things; a broken bone, a weeping woman, a burning hut, a frozen carcass. The waves shied away while he was enslaved, but for the first time in countless months, they whisper and sing to him again.  
  
_Look up!_  
  
His eyes move up above the red crest of his opponent’s helmet, to a spot in the stands. There are so many people there, and his vision is clouding so rapidly that at first, he doesn’t understand the command. Then, he sees someone lingering at the edge of the lowest row with hair the color of ash, eyes wide and concerned. They wear armor like a less ornate version of what the hawk-eyed man wears, so they’re part of the Red Banners, but there’s something so intrinsically familiar, something that pulls at Aengus’ very spirit in a way he hasn’t felt in years.  
  
_Family,_ the waves tell him, even though he has none of those left. _Friend. Tribe._  
  
Tribe. Someone left from his tribe.  
  
Aengus feels the shock go through him, running up and down his spine before spreading to every part of his body. Even his tattoos suddenly have a sensation of their own, not just streaks of ink, but now feeling as if they’ve been electrified. His vision clears, his head stops buzzing with vertigo, and for a brief, temporary moment, he feels invincible.  
  
His opponent, still laughing, lumbers forth with his superheated spear at the ready. When he lifts it, Aengus lifts his as well. He may not be as massive as his opponent, or as strong, but he has one clear advantage; he’s _much_ faster.  
  
He moves fluidly, practically weaving through every thrust of the glowing spear, changing his opponent’s attitude from amusement to frustration to irritation, and finally to raw anger. He shouts that Aengus should hold still, or something to that effect. He snarls and strikes over and over, hitting only sand as Aengus all but dances out of the way. Each of Aengus’ steps feels pre-planned, put in place by the waves long before he arrived; twist left, turn right, back up three steps, parry, parry again, jump back.  
  
Finally, _finally_ , Aengus has the perfect distance between himself and his opponent. He lifts his spear again, aims, and throws harder than he ever has. His spear arcs as a black line against the dust-colored sky, and falls. For a suspended moment, everything goes perfectly silent save for the high whistle of the spear’s rusted head splitting the air. Even Aengus’ breath hitches, and he’s afraid to breathe in case the very fluctuation of air changes his spear’s course.  
  
Then, there is the ugly sound of metal piercing flesh and bone, followed by the agonized howl of his opponent, and time moves again.  
  
His spear is sticking out of his opponent’s unarmored thigh, broken off halfway through so that only a medic will be able to pull it out. The superheated spear hisses in the sand, abandoned. His opponent stumbles and falls to the ground, grasping at his wound that is now oozing blood. All Aengus can do is stand and stare in wonder at what he’s just done.  
  
There’s a hush in the crowd, and everyone looks at each other as if they aren’t sure what they should do. Two men in plain red jerseys rush out into the arena to aid his opponent, followed by two more armored men with machetes that come for Aengus.  
  
They mean to kill him as punishment for injuring his opponent. He was never meant to win.  
  
Aengus backs away, but knows down to his core that this was how it was meant to be. He can die honorably, having bested his enemy. And he can die knowing that there is someone of his tribe out there, and he was not as alone as he had thought. It should be a far cleaner death than what the superheated spear would have given him, at least. Still, instinct rises over what he knows and he still attempts to get away from them. One of the men runs ahead and grabs him roughly by the shoulder, forcing him to his knees. He shouts an order than Aengus can’t understand before grabbing him by the hair and shoving his head down to the ground so that his forehead touches the sand.  
  
He’ll be decapitated. Somehow, relief floods him at this. It’s going to be quick and near painless. He’ll die on his knees, yes, but there are far worse ways to go.  
  
However, after he closes his eyes to ready himself, another shout cuts through the clamor. It’s a child’s voice, high and panicked. They shout and repeat themselves multiple times, saying the same word over and over. _Life! Life! Life!_  
  
Aengus manages to turn his head enough to look up towards the sound. It’s difficult to see at his angle, with his head pressed to the ground, but he sees a boy in the stands, practically hanging over the railing of the arena. He can’t be much older than ten years, his brown hair mussed on one side, his green eyes wide and frantic. A harried woman stands beside him, trying to pull him away by the elbow, but the boy resists her. His free hand is in the air, curled into a fist, thumb pointed at the sky.  
  
A child is pleading for Aengus’ life.  
  
There is another hanging pause, only shaken by the boy’s pleas, but once the motion starts, it cannot be stopped. The next person to act is the one the waves called _tribe_ , the one with the ash hair and the armor, a boy Aengus’ age by the looks of it. His hand is in the air next, thumb raised, yelling the same sentiment. In the same row are what look like a set of blond twins, and they’re on their feet in the next instant. Then a black-haired teenager that must be Aengus’ age. One by one, the arena is swayed with the motion, until almost everyone is on their feet, chanting, “ _Life! Life!_ ”  
  
As slowly as he can, not wanting to provoke the men with the machetes any more than they’ve already been provoked, he turns to look at their leader still sitting back in his chair on the platform. The older man has lost his air of disappointment, one eyebrow now raised as if intrigued. Then, with deliberateness on par with tension, he raises his fist and holds it in the air. He turns it, and then…  
  
His thumb is raised.  
  
Aengus is to live.  
  
The crowd erupts into cheering as Aengus lets out a huge sigh of relief, nearly a sob. It’s not the feeling he went into the arena with, with his conviction to die honorably in order to see his family. Now that he knows that there is someone else, now that the waves have come back after an eon of silence, things are abruptly very different.  
  
One of the men picks him up by his shoulder none-too-gently, and Aengus feels that invincibility wash away from him the second he’s remotely upright. One moment, he sees the crowds and the leader of the Red Banners looking at him with something like approval, and the next moment, his vision is blotting out with huge discs of black, growing larger and larger until he sees nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


End file.
